Since I last wrote, things have happened. Some are good things. Others, not so much. This post is about a couple of those “other things.”
I was having a great Christmas week visiting family across the state in West Palm Beach. My father and brother live there. My other siblings, kids, and nephews all flew in for the big holiday get-together. We opened gifts, ate good food, celebrated my daughter’s engagement, and played marathon pickleball matches on the nearby public courts.
Pickleball. What could go wrong?
At the very end of one of these matches I heard a pop like a big rubber band snapped in two. I was rushing the net, and the next thing I knew I was on the ground.
I knew exactly what had happened because it had happened once before. Twenty-six and a half years earlier, I was playing tennis in California and heard the same sound and found myself in the same position on the court. I’d ruptured my Achilles tendon.
If you’re a fan of Greek myths and legends, you know that Achilles was the great warrior in Homer’s epic poem The Iliad. When Achilles was born, his mother wanted to make him immortal by dipping him in the River Styx. Fine, but in order to accomplish this, she grabbed him by the ankle and dunked him like she was making a tie-dye god. Problem is, she forgot about baby Achilles’ ankle where she’d been holding him. So he was tie-dyed with immortality everywhere except his ankle. Kind of a problem, because 99% immortality is not immortality, especially if your sworn enemies find out. Spoiler: they did. Achilles was killed in the Trojan War when an arrow pierced his ankle.
But Ma, you told me I was immortal!
I have never considered myself immortal, and a fierce game of pickleball is as close as I’ll get to fighting in the Trojan War, but I can confirm that rupturing your Achilles tendon does feel a lot like someone shot an arrow into your ankle.
The first time it happened, twenty-six and half years before, my wife was eight months pregnant with our daughter. When she went into labor, I was still on crutches after surgery, and my wife had to carry her own bag into the emergency room. The ER nurse took one look and shook her head. “Pathetic.”
This time, I went straight to the ER, got the diagnosis confirmed, then had to return to Tampa to see an orthopedic surgeon, have surgery, and begin the looooong recovery. Splint, cast, boot, and months of physical therapy. Worse, it’s my right ankle this time, so I can’t drive for now. I use a knee scooter when possible and crutches when necessary.
As soon as I got crutches I ordered black foam pads and a pouch. Understated yet stylish.
My high-performance knee scooter. All my house is now a race track.
My pretty blue cast
Anyway, that’s one thing. If there’s any bright side, it’s that I have a lot of time at home to do things like write this blog post.
The other “other thing” that happened is that our beloved cat Weezie, aka Queen of the Underworld, passed away. She had been weak and eating less, though not in any pain. I think she knew it was her time. I opened the door to the patio one morning, and she trotted out as usual. She lay down in the sunlight, and when I found her a few hours later, she didn’t stir. Weezie came to us as a stray 16 years before. She chose us by parking herself on our doorstep and not leaving until we let her in. She was an important part of our family for all those years. We were very sad to lose her but could not imagine a more perfect way for her to go, basking in the sun and listening to the birds as she loved to do. And if she is truly Queen of the Underworld, as we have long suspected, she has simply returned there to resume her rightful throne. Rest in peace, Weezie.
Queen of the Underworld
Thank you for reading. I have more to share and promise there’ll be better news in my next post!
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